On Thin Ice by Eve Gaddy

line?”
    “No, the Gettysburg Address. Of course the line.” She flicked him another killer smile. “Bet I’ve heard it before.”
    Devlin grinned. God, he loved a challenge. “How much?”
    “This round’s on the loser.”
    “Deal.” He put out his hand, and they shook.
    “Have at it, Romeo.” Pulling her hand away, she turned her back to him.
    Devlin touched her shoulder. In a replay of a few minutes earlier, she swung around, pure frost in her eyes. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, “you wouldn’t happen to have a condom on you, would you?”
    “Sorry. I don’t have the anatomy for it.”
    Devlin gave a shout of laughter. “Damn, you’ve heard it before.”
    Grinning, she arched an eyebrow. “Actually, no. But I’m quick.” Just then the bartender set their drinks in front of them. “Put them on my tab,” she told him.
    Devlin toasted her with his Scotch and water. “To fast comebacks.”
    “And bad lines.” She rested her chin in her hand and looked at him earnestly. “I think you need serious help with your definition of dynamite.”
    “I won the bet, didn’t I?”
    “Winning isn’t everything,” she stated in a pious tone.
    “Beats the hell out of losing.” He slid his arm across the back of her bar stool. “If I wanted to get a beautiful woman’s attention—” he caught her gaze and smiled, the smile guaranteed to make a woman weak-kneed and willing “—that’s not what I’d ask her.”
    “What would you say, then?”
    Did she know her voice had softened? His hand trailed up to the back of her neck, sneaking under her hair. He lowered his voice to midnight quiet and held her gaze. “Aren’t you the woman I dreamed about last night?”
    Her eyes widened; he heard her breath catch. “That might work,” she admitted huskily, after a moment.
    “Did it?” His hand continued its caress, tracing slow, sensual circles on her neck.
    “It’s a . . . definite possibility.”
    “I’ve never used it before.”
    “Never?” Her voice was almost a whisper. He had to strain to hear it.
    “No.” He leaned in close, so close, their mouths were nearly touching. So close, he felt her breath feather across his lips. The chatter, the music, the people surrounding them faded to black “The thing is—” he picked up her hand and brushed the lightest of kisses over the backs of her fingers “—it’s not a line. It happens to be true.”
    Their gazes still locked, Gabrielle drew in a deep, unsteady breath. Her eyes turned a bottomless, misty green. For a long moment neither spoke. “You’re very good,” she breathed. “I almost believe you.”
    “Believe it,” he said, and moved in for the kill.
    His mouth was a sigh away from hers when she jerked her head back and yanked her hand from his. The moment shattered like thin ice.
    “You win,” she said, and reached for her wine.
    Watching her gulp some down, Devlin smiled. The spell had broken, but the aftereffects remained. “What’s this? Gabrielle Rousseau, CG and S’s finest, conceding so easily?”
    “I’m having an off night.”
    “Drowning your sorrows?”
    “No, no, no.” She toasted him with her glass. “Celebrating. It’s much more fun.”
    He had to give it to her, she made a quick recovery. “What are you celebrating? The Sabatino case isn’t exactly going ninety to nothing. For our side, anyway.”
    “Oh, that.” Waving one hand dismissively, she finished off half the wine. “We’ll find something. So what if he’s got lousy character witnesses?”
    “It makes defen—”
    Before he could finish the sentence she interrupted. “You surprised me today, you know?” Leaning forward with the glass in her hand tilting precariously to one side, she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Ms. . . . whatever, can’t remember her name. The woman who came to see you this morning. Why’d you take her case?”
    Hello? Where did that come from? Devlin wondered. Drinking some of his Scotch, he